6:00 pm: Baby deep in the throes of the witching hour(s). Must hold baby. Do not put baby down. Unless it’s on his changing table, on which he is oddly happy and cooing. But only briefly. Whatever you do, do not try to change baby’s clothes. Taking his arms in and out of shirt/onesie/pajamas and/or swaddle = batshit crazy screaming baby.

6:05 pm: Even though you know better, change baby’s clothes. Baby cries in a manner that can only be described as “I-hope-the-neighbors-have-earplugs/aren’t-calling-child-protective-services.”

6:09 pm: Baby is still crying. Swaddle baby. Reassure baby that he does like the swaddle, even if he doesn’t remember. Realize that you cannot reason with baby.

6:10 pm: Lights off, white noise on, nurse baby.

7:00 pm: Baby asleep, falls off boob. Very carefully and quietly attempt to move baby into crib/co-sleeper/swing/rock n’ play or whatever baby vessel you are hoping MIGHT JUST WORK PLEASE DEAR GOD WE ARE DESPERATE. Curse husband for making so much noise in the kitchen. DOESN’T HE KNOW WE HAVE A BABY?!

7:02 pm: Baby wide awake and wondering where the F he is/why not in your arms/why not on the boob/WHAT ON EARTH IS HAPPENING HERE. You remember that you are a bad mother for not putting baby down “drowsy but awake.”

7:06 pm - 9:00 pm: Eat dinner as fast as you can while tensely looking at the monitor, wondering when the hammer will drop. Do dishes in lightning fast frenzy certain that baby will wake imminently.

9:01 pm: Get in bed knowing that as soon as you discontinue your insane hypervigilance of the baby monitor, baby will begin crying.

9:04 pm: Baby is awake. Muster inner strength for long night ahead.

9:05 pm - 6:00 am: Baby wakes every 1-2 hours all night long. You and husband “alternate” but somehow he ends up sleeping for 6 straight hours. You’re tired and bad at math so you can’t quite figure out how this happens but you resent him anyway. In the morning husband feels proud that he gave the baby a bottle at 4 am. Husband appears well rested and declares the baby a “good sleeper!” and reminds you to “stay positive!” You refrain from hitting husband. You are exhausted and you’ve watched so many episodes of Sister Wives during the middle of the night that you’ve become convinced of the benefits of polygamy and shared motherhood. You begin to question your sanity.

Then, two weeks ago, this started happening:

5:57 pm: Baby beginning to melt down/stare blankly at ceiling fan. Begin bedtime routine. Turn down lights and speak in soft voice. Husband comes home from work and starts trying to “play” with baby by squealing and yelling at him. You become wife who is admonishing husband not to “rile baby up” before bedtime. You feel like you’re 45 years old/in a sitcom.

6:00 pm: Even though you know better, you change baby’s clothes. Baby cries in a manner that can only be described as “I-hope-the-neighbors-have-earplugs/aren’t-calling-child-protective-services.”

6:05 pm: “Read” Brown Bear from memory as baby is completely mesmerized by both the brown bear and the blue duck. But by the time you are asking what the teacher sees, baby is over it. Resolve to try different book tomorrow.

6:06 pm: Give baby “massage” with coconut oil because you read on some hippy parenting blog that this is good for baby. “Massage” is basically just you rubbing baby’s sausage legs while he looks at his fist quizzically.

6:08 pm: Swaddle baby. Reassure baby that he does like the swaddle, even if he doesn’t remember. Remind yourself that you cannot reason with baby.

6:09 pm: Sing made up song that you (falsely?) believe “cues” baby for sleep. Baby gives you look that says, “Moooooom, please stop singing.” You note the harbinger of future teen angst to come.

6:10 pm: Nurse baby to sleep because even though you’re not supposed to, you kind of don’t care because, duh, baby falls asleep on the boob.

6:53 pm: Baby is asleep! You congratulate yourself on a job well done meanwhile cursing husband for making so much noise in the kitchen. Unless he’s cooking you dinner. In which case, carry on.

6:54 pm: Put baby down - jostling him slightly because, DROWSY BUT AWAKE FTW - in rock n’ play and momentarily wonder whether he should really be sleeping in the rock n’ play because he will probably die/never learn to sleep flat on his back/sleep in the rock n’ play until he’s 18. Rock baby for several minutes as name implies.

1:51 am: You are wide awake and wondering why baby is still sleeping. You wake husband to inquire whether he thinks baby has stopped breathing as there is obviously no other explanation for baby’s improved sleep patterns. Husband appears confused and disoriented and wonders why you must ruin a good thing. Husband suggests that you check on baby IF YOU MUST.

1:53 am: You wake baby upcheck on baby by gently rubbing his cheek to see if he responds.

1:54 am: Baby is awake and you are oddly happy to nurse him.

2:36 am: Baby asleep.

6:46 am: Unsure what exactly is happening, you are awake and nervously watching baby monitor. Baby appears alive but sleeping.

7:02 am: Casually walk into baby’s room where baby is awake and smiling to himself. You are sure baby must be on drugs because SERIOUSLY WHAT IS THIS, WHERE IS MY SON?

7:03 am: Disbelief at how the previous night has unfolded/maintaining very low expectations of such a thing ever happening again.

Tuesday, February 25, 2014

I’ve
been back at work for over a week now. Over a week in which I have felt like
some bizarre combination of a disembodied head attached to an electric pump. It
has been disorienting, exhausting, stimulating and also, for good measure, TEARY. Mostly, “work” has just become
the stuff that happens in between pumping. It’s all very bizarre. Here then are
some new-working-mama-lessons-from-the-back-to-work-trenches™.

(1) They can hear you

I had
it all planned out. It was 9 am and time to pump. No matter that I had a VERY
IMPORTANT PHONE CALL with a VERY SERIOUS LAW ENFORCEMENT TYPE. I would simply
hook myself up to the milking machine and disguise the incessant, thumping
sound of the pump with a series of scarves and other patented sound mufflers
(my hands? A down coat?). Because that’s just who I am. SUPER MOM/MACGYVER.

<A
mere 3 minutes into VERY IMPORTANT PHONE CALL>

Serious
law enforcement type: (laughing uncomfortably) I’m sorry, but I am having a
really hard time concentrating – what on earth is that sound?

Sarah:
<totally awkward and not at all believable reference to “construction”
happening “outside” plus, oh I don’t know,… an ambulance?>

Serious
law enforcement type: <brutally long pause while deciding whether or not to
call me out on my totally not plausible explanation>

Sarah:
<searches for excuse to end phone call immediately>

Ahem.
Lesson learned.

(2) Simple pleasures

The
pleasure of using the bathroom alone and for more than 8 pained seconds cannot
be overstated. Really. Really.

(3) Getting used to answering the same god-for-saken
question

Means-well-but-only-kind-of
co-worker: How old is your son?

Sarah
(under eye bags prominent): 11 weeks

Means-well-but-only-kind-of
co-worker: <with great anticipation> Is
he sleeping through the night?!

Sarah
(under eye bags growing darker with each passing minute): No.

Means-well-but-only-kind-of
co-worker: <grave disappointment>

And
then, 15 minutes later, THIS ENTIRE EXCHANGE WILL BE REPEATED WITH EVERY SINGLE
COLLEAGUE.

(4) Growing efficiency mixed with
complete distraction

There’s
something about the incredible demands of an infant, the exorbitant cost of
child care and the singular drive to go home and go to sleep AS SOON AS HUMANLY
POSSIBLE that makes one exponentially more efficient at work. Also, DISTRACTED.
Because, you know, baby, baby, baby, must
sustain human life, must look at pictures of baby and watch video of baby while
at desk writing important legal brief.See
also: BABY. It’s baffling, really.

So
guys, what am I missing? What other back to work life lessons should I be made
aware of?

Sunday, February 16, 2014

It’s hard to say
when I knew it wasn’t a good fit. But my money is on, ohI don’t know, the
moment she went running down the hallway, dramatically locked herself in our
bathroom, and screeched that she just KNEW
our dog was going to bite her. (Spoiler: our sweet, but energetic, Labrador retriever
did not bite her. Or anyone.).

And that was
just the beginning.

She did refer to our son as “papa” (as in, puh-PAH), which was a definite selling
point.

Alas, the great
nanny search of 2014. C went back to work six weeks in and I put on my
working-mother-tiara full time next week. HARK! CHILDCARE!

We’ve gone back
and forth on the best option for us and for Ezra. C works crazy hours
including, in the next five months alone, two full months of thirty hour,
overnight shifts. My schedule is less GITMO-esque-sleep-deprivation, but there
are still many days when I am out of the house for going on 10-12 hours. <Parents
of the year, right here>

So, ultimately,
we decided that YES, we do want to
commit approximately 95% of our income to the great child care abyss (do you
hear that sucking sound?). Enter: Mary Poppinsnanny.

Of course, being
a thirty year old amateur lawyer and fly-by-night internet blogger, I am absolutely unqualifiedto employanyone. So we
asked the internet what to do we muddled our way through.

There’s
something very bizarre about interviewing nannies. You invite them into your
home and within seconds of meeting them, you hand over the most precious thing
you’ve ever created[1]. Then they
sit there, holding, swaddling, singing to and trying their hardest to soothe
your screamy, downy headed infant in an effort to win you over while you
stumble through inane questions like what
do you love most about newborns? and will
you help us with a nap schedule? or maybe, if you’re feeling bold, can you tell me about a time when you had a
conflict with a previous employer and how you resolved it? <said with
great confidence, though conscious that I appear roughly 13 years old and am
not qualified to be asking a middle aged woman ANY of these things>.

It’s like a
deranged form of speed dating where one of you smells like a urine soaked milk
carton and the other pretends not to care.[2]

Needless to say,
we hired someone. It wasn’t the first applicant, fan of our dog though she was.
So now we have a nanny. *gulp*

[1] The paper mache clown I made in forth
grade coming in at a very close
second.

Monday, February 3, 2014

Becoming a
parent has revealed what, honestly, I already knew: I am a control freakcreature of habit. I like routines,
predictability and schedules. I promise I’m not boring. I’m adventurous! And
spontaneous! And fun! But I’m also kind
of Type A. And in parenthood, there is no room for Type A. In parenthood, I
do not drive the proverbial bus. I am barely a passenger. This has been most
apparent in my son’s schedule, or absence thereof. I present to you:

The first six weeks, a snapshot:

<I don’t know
what time to “begin” this snapshot because honestly, time just kind of passes during the first six weeks. There
are no days, or nights or “bedtimes.” There is just time. Time that moves
slowly and chaotically and during which you cling to some semblance of normalcy,
fighting the DRASTIC changes affecting every last facet of your life. Also,
JOY. New baby! Cute baby clothes! Sausage arms!.>

So… let’s start
at 8:30 am, shall we?

8:30 am: Baby is awake! You are not awake. You do
not know what day it is. You barely know your name.

10:30 am - ????: The middle of the day is unclear. You
forget to eat lunch. You are unsure how to “play” with this amphibious creature
the hospital nurses swore was your son, so you intermittently sing him random
songs you remember from Hebrew school/expletive laced hip hop, lay him on his
tummy for 30 seconds until he screams, and shove toys in his face though you
are unsure whether or not he can see them. Also, your boobs feature prominently
during this period.

2 pm: Stuff baby in Ergo carrier and hurry off to your “new
mother group.” Pray that your baby will not be the baby who screams his way
through the entire hour and a half. Feed him relentlessly so that he remains
calm. Commiserate with other mothers about your lack of sleep. Wonder why this
new mothers group can’t just be a group nap time where someone else is hired to
watch your offspring. Everyone would be happier.

3:30-4:30 pm: Get coffee with other new mothers. Do
not sit down because baby is finally sleeping in Ergo carrier and you MUST NOT
STOP BOUNCING[1] for fear
that he will wake up. Have engaging discussion with other new mothers about
various bottle and nipple types and bemoan the end of maternity leave. Make
plan with other going-stir-crazy-in-my-house
mothers to go for vigorous stroller walk the next day.

4:30 pm-????: The evening is a blur. Your partner
comes home from work and while on one hand you MUST HAVE A MOMENT TO YOURSELF
RIGHT NOW BECAUSE NEED TO POOP/SHOWER/EAT, you are also, kind of clingy and alternately do not want to stop holding the
baby/want to have 3 more just like him. BUT ALSO, you have passing feelings of
resentment toward people who don’t have children and who are at the gym/at the
bar/doing nothing right about now. It’s all very confusing and difficult to
explain. You know because when you try to explain it to your partner he appears
concerned for your mental wellbeing and suggests that you relax and have a
glass of wine. You give him the baby and become immediately unable to focus or
accomplish anything despite the BIG PLANS you had earlier in the day. Again,
your boobs feature prominently.

7 pm: You’ve read a lot about setting up a “bedtime routine” for
your baby, and you decide that TONIGHT IS THE NIGHT. But despite your best
efforts, the bath results in that I-forget-how-to-breathe-scream
that turns your baby bright red and leaves you reduced to tears. When you try
to “read a book” to your baby, you can’t help but feel like you’re actually
reading a book to your partner, who looks on with great interest at the
pictures in Goodnight Moon. By contrast, your son appears disinterested/distracted
by something shiny.

7:30 pm-????: Nighttime is a blur. You have no idea
what your baby’s “bed time” is nor any clue how to find out. He will not tell
you, despite your relentless inquiry. Sometimes he sleeps for a few hours at a
time. Sometimes he awakes every 45 minutes. Sometimes you give in and allow him
to sleep, upright in your arms for FAR TOO LONG, while you doze in and out of
sleep/check Facebook on your phone in the dark. Sometimes you check every fifteen
five minutes whether or not he’s breathing because he is FAR TOO QUIET.

2:30 am-6 am: Baby wakes constantly. Baby “cluster
feeds”. Or at least that’s what you’re calling it. Because new moms really like
to throw this term around and it seems to provide an appropriate and
normalizing name to what might otherwise be termed “COMPLETE FUCKING INSANITY.”

6 am: Baby wakes. You pretend he isn’t really awake because SLEEPY. You half-heartedly feed him and
let him doze in your arms for the next couple hours.

8:30 am: Rinse and repeat.

Weeks six, seven and eight:

And then, like
that, we kind of fell into a rhythm. Sure, the rhythm involves a gazillion
nighttime wakings – in a way that is not strikingly distinct from weeks one
through six – and also involves a deep and abiding uncertainty about whether my
son prefers his crib to the co-sleeper or the co-sleeper to the swing (IT
DEPENDS. Like, BY THE MINUTE. GAH!). But at least the unpredictability is
predictable. Sometimes he sleeps from 7-10 pm. Sometimes he wakes up at 8:30 pm.
Sometimes he sleeps from 10 pm – 2am and sometimes he wakes up at midnight and
fusses for an hour, looking at me wide eyed like a wild banshee. It’s kind of a
roll of the dice. Of course, there are some things we do kinda know, despite
failing miserably at keeping track of his every ever-loving movement with a fancy Smartphone app that promises to
make pie charts of your child’s bowel movements. Yes, despite failing at
baby technology, there are still some common denominators (that, having now
spoken them aloud, will probably not come true EVER AGAIN). For example, he actually
kind of has a bedtime. He usually goes to bed around 7 pm and wakes around
6-6:30 am. Then, about two hours after waking up, once he’s been
fed/changed/played and danced around, he’s ready for a nap. He naps for about
an hour/hour and a half – in the swing, woman! Only in the swing! – wakes at 10
ish and plays until 12:30 or so. Then he eats again and goes back down for another
nap around 1. The afternoon can be a bit of a crapshoot – will he take a third
nap? Will he pretend nap in my arms for 6 unbelievably short minutes then fuss
his way to bed time like a little terror? Will he happily bounce around in the
Ergo or nap peacefully in the stroller while we dart about town/various mamas
groups/a walk outside? Maybe. Also, maybe not. It’s not the rhythm I would have
chosen; not the type-A control freak routine I might have envisioned back in
the easy days of pregnancy, when my expectations were WILDLY UNREALISTIC. But
whatever it is, it’s our routine.

What about you guys - what's your routine? What can I expect going forward?

(Of course, now looking back and
comparing weeks one through six with weeks six/seven/eight, I am struck by how
it’s actually not the baby that’s changed at all but rather, it’s my own –
drastically lowered – expectations. AWWWWW,
SHUCKS.)

My 8 week old baby. In his preferred sleeping arrangement - dressed like a bear, strapped in a car seat.

[1]It is also during these early weeks that
you find yourself bouncing while not carrying the baby. For example, while
standing in front of the refrigerator or in the shower. Some habits die hard.

Thursday, January 23, 2014

At first I was going to call this post “nursery porn.” But for fear of what trolling interweb sociopaths
might stumble upon this here blog when searching for other, less classy,
subject matter, I didn't. You're welcome.

Alas, here are a
few shots of baby E’s nursery. So far, I’m pretty
sure he loves it cannot see most of it because it is neither black nor white. On the other and, he’s only peed on the expensive direct-from-Etsy Turkish kilim rug twice. So at least we’ve got that going for us.

(Not pictured is the "incredibly comfortable" floor model armchair we bought heavily discounted from West Elm that has given me terrible sciatic pain. ProTip: breastfeeding is a serious occupational hazard.)

Back soon with more on this wild ride of parenthood. For now, I am delighted to confirm what all the doctors on the Internets say: six weeks is, in fact, the height of crazy-fussing-crying-time. HOW FUN FOR US. <smothers self with pillow>.

Just pretend you can't read those blocks.

Ho, hum. Just another mid-century modern dresser turned changing table. One day he'll appreciate my style. One day.

Ezra claims there are only thousands of cats. One day he'll learn. THERE ARE MILLIONS.

This is a vintage map from, approximately, 1939. We think it's important that Ezra grow up believing in Italian Libya. Also that he be exposed to the lead paint that is surely chipping off this old window we used to frame it.

Here is the aforementioned rug. Also pictured: sheepskin purchased at a farmer's market. For that extra, earthy, animal farm smell that newborns love.

While
I’m pretty sure that my infant son would be far
more intrigued if given the opportunity to chew haphazardly on the
aforementioned cardboard tube and stare blankly at the overhead lights like the
future paste eater he is, I am also an insecure first time mom who is
apparently willing to be convinced that my everyday kitchen recycling has a
starring role in my child’s emotional and intellectual development.

So. Why
not err on the side of caution? Here then is a non-exhaustive list of suggested
alternative “secrets” I’d like to share with my five week old son.

1.Tell
me why you are crying.

2.No,
really, why?

3.You appear
remarkably unfazed by a giant diaper filled with liquid shit. You do not cry
even for a second. By contrast, the simple act of putting a shirt on you
warrants the ear shattering shrieks of a 300 lb pterodactyl. Discuss.

4.You
need to start taking a more active role in your personal hygiene.

5.Your
father is a very heavy sleeper. Scream louder; it’s his turn.

6.I am
keeping track of the number of times you have peed on me. <Menacing
cackle>.

What secrets, dear readers, would you
tell your infant child if given a cardboard tube and free reign to assail
him or her with a series of sarcastic quips?

(As I’m writing this, and C is dramatically
wrangling our squirmy infant and demanding ALL OF THE CREDIT, C has suggested
the following “secret” to tell our son: “Does each blog post come with a
certificate of child neglect? Are we going to have to ask the dog to raise this
baby?” Ahem. I guess that’s my cue.)

Friday, January 3, 2014

First. I am really sorry. I am totally
behind on reading everyone’s blogs and commenting. I’m working on it, I swear. Right
now I’m just too busy failing as a parent to make time for thoughtful
commentary BUT I am reading. Comments soon to follow, scout’s honor.

And now, without
further adieu, eight ways[1]
I’ve failed as a parent in less than thirty days. At this rate, child
protective services is on their way who knows what gems the next 18 years will
hold!

1. Visits from guests who have not
demonstrated satisfactory immunization histories

Friends of ours
mentioned that they had once tried to visit another friend and her new baby
only to be turned away until they were up to date on ALL OF THEIR VACCINES AND
HAD RECORDS TO PROVE IT. We laughed our naïve little heads off for hours at
these silly, overly cautious and foolishly prudent parents. And then we cried.
Because we are bad, bad parents who barely required our guests to wash the snot
off their hands.

As my three
loyal readers already know, we
descended into the world of formula feeding last week after a few
unsatisfactory weight checks and what appears to be low milk supply <waves
to the crowd, gesturing at boobs>. And now, at least from what I can read on
the big, bad interwebs under the cover of night, deciding to supplement is
basically akin to feeding my delicate snowflake liquid poison/committing child
abuse AND all cans of formula should come equipped with (a) no fewer than four pre-written
rejection letters from ivy league schools and (b) referrals for a bevy of
psychotherapists. Dearest child, you’re
welcome.

4. Our empty baby book

Our empty baby
book. In which I have literally written not one word. But we did save the NYTimes
from the day he was born. Because he’ll DEFINITELY want to read coverage of the
“crisis” facing the Insane Clown Posse as of December 9, 2013. (And while I
haven’t written a thing in his baby book, I did totally give myself a GIANT pat
on the back for saving his itty-bitty hospital bracelet that looks like it
would fit around the ankle of an ant. I intend to present it to him at his high
school graduation/his first meeting with his probation officer. I’m pretty sure he’ll thank me.)

5. Allowing my
developing-bad-habits-as-quickly-as-possible newborn to sleep everywhere other
than his crib

I know. This is
a tired, old story. But nearly a month in, it still holds true. E will sleep
anywhere as long as it’s not in his crib. In my arms. In his stroller. In his
carseat. In C’s arms. In the arms of unwitting and possibly intoxicated
strangers encountered on the street in the dead of night. Etc. It’s a fine
balance because on one hand, you want him to sleep, but on the other hand… I
forget. I’m too tired.

6. Humiliating onesies

I have allowed
my son, on three non-consecutive occasions, to wear ridiculous and humiliating
onesies – Hand-Me-Downs all of them, I swear – that say things like “Daddy’s
little hero!” (above a little embroidered taxi cab because, um, obviously?) and
“I love hugs!”

In my defense,
on at least one of those occasions, it was 4 am and my adorable boy had just
sent a stream of hot urine at least a foot in the air, landing directly in his
left eye. As soon as I finished laughing hysterically[3],
I had to dress him as soon as possible and the little taxi cab number just
happened to be on top. <hangs head in shame>.

7. Baby as dinner napkin

As
aforementioned, see (5) supra, my
son, the little devil, prefers to sleep in my arms over literally everywhere
else. And because I’m nothing if not a pushover, I indulge him. Which means
that I eat most of my meals while he’s draped underneath me like a dinner
napkin. So far, I’ve pulled sandwich crumbs from his hair and pretzel crumbs
from the tiny folds of his neck – seriously, who knows what lives under there. And, if I’m being honest, it’s possible that a piece of veggie burger
got wedged somewhere in the depths of a striped SwaddleMe. So far he doesn’t
seem to mind.

8. More germs

As if our
unvaccinated visitors weren’t enough cause for health department concern, I
would be remiss not to mention the added germs[4]
of our beloved six-year-old Labrador retriever. Truth be told, during one lazy
afternoon breastfeeding marathon, during which I was glued to the couch and
allowing the Kardashians to parent my offspring, I may have looked on idly
as our dog did a drive-by lick of the baby’s bare newborn head AND his pacifier. Also, we let him have
a pacifier. I guess that’s nine
parenting fails. <Curtsy>.

Contemplative Ezra. Day 25. On which he looks like he's already about 10 years old and his mother weeps while mumbling some cliche about the passage of time. Scene.

[1] Truth: this started out as “five ways”
but then, wouldn’t you know it, I just
kept thinking of other ways I have failed.